‘What’ll I have? Scotch and dry. Large one. Seeing as it’s you.’ The watery smile failed to reach her dry tired-looking eyes. Bev nearly told her to do one. Knackered or not, the bloody woman still had a nerve the size of Jupiter. And the lip to match. Why Val had played maiden aunt and let Bev sit around twiddling her thumbs, she’d never know. Actually, she’d make damn sure she found out. Eyeballing the older woman, Bev stood and wagged a finger. ‘Don’t move. Not so much as a nostril. You and me are about to have serious words.’
Val flapped a yeah-yeah hand. ‘Hey, chuck,’ she called, ‘I wouldn’t say no to a bag o’ pork scratching, while you’re there, like.’
Lip curled, Bev glanced back. ‘Don’t push your—’
‘Look out, you’ll—’
Too effing late. Cursing like a sailor with Tourettes, Bev went flying over the cat. Tiger took off screeching into the sunset. After a suitable pause, Bev flashed a sheepish grin. The cat’s sudden departure meant there was an upside to everything. Though maybe not everyone. The normally chipper Val looked downcast to the point of deflated. Bev cast a few more covert glances while waiting on the landlord to sort the drinks. Slumped on the bench, Val stared listlessly into space and bit down on a thumbnail like her life depended on it. Wearing shapeless grey trackie bottoms and scuffed rip-off Reeboks, she looked not so much a shadow of her former self, more a shadow of a fifty-something frump who’d let herself go. Bev’d give a week’s pay to know what had caused the once vibrant Val’s va-va-voom to va-vamoose.
Knock it on the head, Beverley. Seeing Val reduced like this was no joking matter. The woman used to exhibit more bounce than a ball factory. Mind, the last thing she’d want was pity. Feeling well sad, Bev picked up the glasses.
‘Here y’go.’ Handing over the Scotch, she threw in a bright smile. ‘Get this down your neck, matey.’
‘Cheers. Did—?’
‘How could I forget?’ She flourished the pork scratchings from an already tight waistband. ‘Ta-dar.’
‘Coo. Still warm, an’ all.’ She winked, then filled a palm before offering Bev the pack.
‘Nah. Trying to give them up.’
‘Off the booze as well, are we?’ Tilting her head at Bev’s coke.
‘On duty, aren’t I?’
‘Never stopped you before.’
Bev waited for eye contact. ‘New woman me, mate.’ Like you.
Still sharp enough to get the tacit dig, Val dropped her gaze pretty damn quick, but not before Bev saw a dark flash of – what? Anger? Hurt? Sorrow? Regret?
Watching her scoff, Bev realized she could speculate till the cows came home blue in the face after a month of Sundays. She needed the back story from the horse’s mouth, but all she was getting at the mo were sound effects. Val’s crunching, crackling and slurping were an assault on the ears and bugger all use to anyone. Correction. As issue-avoidance it helped Val enormously.
Bev drummed the table, hummed a few bars of, ‘We Don’t Talk Any More’. Then hummed a few more.
‘Doing my head in that is.’
Bev snorted. Tough tees. ‘Go on, then.’
‘Go on then, what?’
‘Y’know what I’m saying, Val. Fire away.’ Bev sat back, arms folded. ‘Might as well bite the bullet now as later.’
As it turned out, ‘bullet’ wasn’t far off the mark.
It was late by the time the session ended and Bev had dropped Val at her new place, made sure she got in okay. She’d had to phone Mac and Stace to rearrange their dinner date. Love’s not-so-young dreamsters understood entirely when she told them why. ’Course they had, they were both decent human beings. Unlike the evil shit who’d royally fucked up Val’s world. Even describing him as ‘human’ stretched the definition of the word. Listening to what he’d put Val through, the last thing on Bev’s mind had been feeding her face. Instead she’d itched to take a sledgehammer to crack the bloke’s nuts. Then wield it again to break every bone in his body.
Back at home in Barlow Street now, she gazed through the kitchen window as she grazed on dry coco-pops, the milk in the Marie Celeste fridge having taken a turn for the worst. Still thinking about Val’s story, Bev barely registered the full-cream moon, the silvery sheen it cast across a clumpy lawn that in daylight resembled a lunar landscape. Dog-tired and drained out, she was dying on her feet but knew she was too wired for bed, too many thoughts and images on fast-spin in her head.
It transpired Val had pulled out of the game after a john had smashed his way into her pad and pulled out a gun. For four days she’d been held bound and gagged and had been abused every which way. She’d been convinced soon as he got bored the game’d be up, she’d be dead meat. The carving knife with which he’d traced a line across her throat did nothing to dampen her fears. Or the countless times he’d threatened the only way she’d leave the place would be in a set of suitcases. Even stacked them against a wall – to emphasize the point, apparently.
Bev took a sip of black coffee. ‘Yeuch.’ The taste oughtn’t to come as such a shock given how often she ran out of the sodding white stuff. Still, there were far worse shocks as Val could – but never would – testify. She’d confided in Bev ages ago about a few johns in her past who’d turned nasty, mentioned the odd slap, the torn clothing, the hard-earned takings nicked, the puckered scar across her belly a permanent reminder of the risks she and the other working girls ran. As a seasoned prostitute, Val had shrugged off the incidents. Occupational hazards, weren’t they? She’d even joshed about charging danger money in future.
Clearly the final attack had been a new board game on an entirely different level, not only life-threatening but life-changing. Not only had she ditched the hooker-chic look in favour of dress-down-drab, but Val now worked part-time at a women’s refuge as well as volunteering with one of the city’s outreach teams, keeping an eye on women still working the streets. This was what had prompted the call to Bev. One of the women had clocked Gold/Hobbs’s picture in the paper and hinted to Val she had enough dirt to bury the guy. Bev’s antenna had gone into overdrive. Never mind the saving on funeral fees. If the woman talked, she could probably provide the squad with a herd of steers.
Despite Bev’s pleading, though, Val refused to divulge anything further until she’d cleared it with the woman – Sonia something or other. Val had promised she’d have a go at calling her tonight and would keep trying till she got through. It was a pisser, but the fact that Val had broken cover and made herself known in the pub earlier augured well. Bev must’ve passed whatever test she’d unwittingly sat. ’Cause if Val hadn’t liked what she’d seen or had got cold feet or something, she could’ve just stayed incognito and kept her lip zipped. Bev would have sloped off none the wiser.
Mind, she’d still no idea how Val’s ordeal had ended or why it had never been reported to the police. When asked, Val was seriously spooked as in near-hyperventilating, and had warned Bev not to go there. She’d walk, she said, if Bev persisted trying to winkle out the facts. The cop in Bev knew she should call the woman’s bluff. She’d tried a guilt-tripping approach: what if he does the same or worse to some other woman? A swift categorical assurance he was in no position to harm anyone ever again sounded bloody ominous to Bev’s ears. Rang several alarm bells. She strongly suspected one of Val’s gentlemen callers, a dear friend as opposed to a cheap fuck, had paid an unexpected home visit, broken up the party and treated the sick git to some strong-arm medicine. What if Mr Nice Guy’s position was now six feet under?
Justice of sorts would have been meted out. Rougher punishment than any court would impose. Like any cop, Bev had certainly witnessed her fill of hardened crims handed soft sentences. The law could be a pain in the arse, but when had two wrongs ever made a right?
Nah, at some stage, she’d have to push Val on the bastard’s whereabouts. And ascertain whether she still owned a set of luggage.
Bev took another sip of black coffee, grimaced again, and chucked the rest down the sink. And there’
d still be no milk for her morning tea.
She stomped upstairs, seriously thinking about getting a pet cow.
Friday
26
They say the sun shines on the righteous and, boy, was Bev basking, in both rays and self-righteous glory. Bathed in a golden glow, she stood framed in the window of her office, beaming down beatifically as she scoffed an almond croissant. She could just picture herself as Pope Bev, poised on a balcony and airily waving a papal hand to bestow blessings on her adoring masses. Yeah, she could do that. Though God knows why she felt the need to glance over her shoulder first. And God knew why she hadn’t used the other hand. Flaky pastry flew everywhere. Even worse, she’d not noticed an audience gathering. Powell, Mac and Carol Pemberton must’ve arrived for work simultaneously and now stood directly below, gazing up and looking utterly baffled. She sniffed. No reason for Powell to circle a finger at his temple like that.
Mind, having the DI as gaffer was enough to send anyone doolally. She gave a blithe smile and a nonchalant wave. Always best to brazen these things out. Then she watched as they walked off in cahoots, pissing themselves laughing. Ah well, so what? She still wore her goody-two-shoes halo.
She’d been in so early she’d even had her pick of the car park. Good job, too. After the mad dash round Asda, a shady spot for the Midget had been a must. With the temperature on the rise, it’d be a crying shame if the milk went off before it saw the inside of her fridge. Same applied for the butter, bacon, sausages, cheese, eggs-cetera. Christ, if she’d chucked a couple of cod fillets in the trolley alongside the loaf of bread there’d be enough in the boot to feed the ten thousand, never mind five. It’d still be cheaper than a Friesian.
Perched on the sill now, swinging her legs, she popped in the last bit of croissant, took a slurp of coffee and gazed round, trying not to feel too smug. She’d definitely performed miracles in here. In-tray empty, files neatly stacked, papers squared off, pens regimentally lined up with ruler. She’d gone into anally-retentive mode only after the admin blitz. Written reports were bang up-to-date, she’d read the overnights, listed and assigned tasks, chased Forensics, found a new planet, discovered the fountain of youth. Yeah, okay, scrub the last two. Arms stretched high, she stifled a yawn, then allowed herself a smile. Seriously, was there no end to her God-given talents?
The smile faltered when her gaze fell on the recent art installation. Hopping off the sill, she sauntered over for a closer look at another of the morning’s accomplishments. Focal point was a picture of the victim, Tommy Gold aka Dean Hobbs, and surrounding his holiday snap was a collage of mugshots she’d assembled that showed the four guys currently under investigation. Not prime suspects so much as men with question marks over their heads. Literally. She’d not long added a load with a black marker pen, ditto a network of lines and arrows indicating possible connections. Screw your eyes and from a distance it’d probably resemble a web and a spider that had got lucky. In reality, Bev knew the plethora of queries suggested just how loose the connections were. And how much work was needed to see if and how they might link up.
So yeah, when it came to talents, one shortcoming was way out there: the perp. Taking a sip of coffee, she studied the faces again: Marty Cox, Oliver Ward, Sam Hayes, Karim Khalid. No doubt about it, she’d give Powell’s pension to know if the murder lay at one of their doors. The vic had certainly lain at Khalid’s door. Well, okay, across his porch. Khalid’s photo had made the cut because like Cox he dabbled in property, so their mutual-interest paths could easily have crossed.
Crime boss Cox. Her skin did that creepy thing again. If being a killer boiled down to being ugly as sin, the guy would be a shoo-in on ice. Unlike golden boy Oliver Ward, the suave smooth-talking dog owner whose allegedly-nicked Rolex had also turned up in Khalid’s porch. She’d placed Ward’s photo next to the photo of Hayes – a guy whose wallet had definitely been half-inched, and then stuffed with cash he claimed to know nothing about by a benefactor of whom he claimed equal ignorance. One incontrovertible fact? The wallet had been found inside Khalid’s property.
Khalid, again. The name kept bobbing up like a cork in a bath full of Bolly. Bev nodded to herself. Another little chat with the landlord was well overdue. She’d earmarked that particular pleasure for Mac.
Engrossed, she tapped a finger against her lip, didn’t register a knock at the door. Assuming there’d been one: Tyler wasn’t big on social niceties, let alone professional courtesies. Even without looking she could tell by the heavy breathing that Mac was the interloper. He sounded like a marathon runner who’d just come last.
‘Well, well, Morriss, who’s been a busy little bee, then?’
Powell? She frowned. Funny, that. Turning round, she saw she’d been right in part. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, looking like some sort of dodgy double act.
Mac gave a sage nod. ‘I’d say it’s buzzing in here, guv.’
Bev rolled her eyes. Clearly the duo didn’t do comedy. ‘Got that right. So how about the pair of you buzz the f— … frick off and go find some work.’
‘Ah, bless.’ Powell cocked his head at Tyler. ‘Hear that, Mac?’
Bless. Very good. Tight-lipped, she crossed her arms.
‘Sure did, guv. When it comes to the job, I always say the boss is a saint.’
Saint. Ho, ho, ho. ‘You just here to take the piss or what?’
‘God, no.’ Mock shock from the DI. ‘Just checking.’
‘For?’
‘Whether you’re feeling yourself?’
‘Okay. That’s it. Out.’
‘Hang fire a min, Morriss.’ Funny act dropped all of a sudden, Powell stepped forward, gaze focused on her handiwork. ‘Your gang of four there. What’s it all about, then?’
Only gang of four Bev had ever heard of was the quartet of MPs who defected from the Labour party in the late eighties. Amazing what trivia she picked up on pub quizzes. She sure didn’t see Cox, Khalid and co. as political types. Whatever. Powell had always had an idiosyncratic way of expressing himself, and was clearly waiting for her to give. After slinging the coffee cup in the bin she talked them both through the possible links, potential lines of inquiry. The DI’s curled lip was as good a way as any of signalling his thoughts. Didn’t stop him voicing them as well.
‘Speculation. Supposition. Conjecture. Don’t add up to much, do it?’
Bev stifled a snort. Like he had anything better? ‘I’m not saying it does. As it stands, they’re People of Interest is all.’
Tyler pointed his rolled-up Sun towards her mug-shots mural. ‘Khalid seems to pop up a lot, boss. Reckon he’s bad-penny material?’
Well spotted. Mac had a habit of putting his finger on the nitty-gritty. ‘I reckon it’s well worth checking out, mate.’
‘Fair dos,’ Powell drawled, then added a grudging, ‘I suppose you may as well toss it round with the squad.’
‘Ah.’ Bev raised a finger. ‘About that.’ She filled him on last night’s meeting with Val Masters. Told him Val had since set up a face-to-face for Bev with a woman who allegedly held the lowdown on Dean Hobbs aka Tommy Gold. ‘Sonia Abbot’s the name. Val’ll be alongside too. So I’ve got other fish to fry – well, grill – and if I don’t get off now …’
‘Meaning I have to run the brief again?’ Powell’s sigh was so laboured it could sign on at the job centre. ‘Bloody hell, woman, this gang of four baloney’s your bag, not mine.’
‘Details are in there, gaffer,’ she said, nodding towards the reports on her desk. ‘Theories mooted, tasks assigned, all more or less sorted.’ Christ, getting ahead of her chores was one of the reasons she’d come in at sparrow’s fart o’clock.
‘I dunno, Morriss.’ He looked like he’d swallowed a lemon covered in cat sick. ‘You sure they’re worth gallivanting off for?’
Reaching for her bag, she felt her hackles rise. Knew Powell had little time for prostitutes. Back in the day, he’d referred to them as toms, and that was when he was being polite. She’d
pulled him up on sexist crap more times than a hand brake in a jam on the M6. ‘What you saying, exactly?’
‘Keep your cob on.’ He flapped a hand, told her not to be too long, then flounced off towards the door.
She glanced at Mac, then pulled a face at the DI, gave him the full eyes-crossed-tongue-wagging works. Should’ve known he’d turn back.
Tutting loudly, Powell shook what looked like a long-suffering head. ‘Christ, Morriss, how old are you?’
She considered asking if it was a trick question but decided it’d be pushing her luck. Apparently he’d forgotten to mention that Darren had asked for permission to go in with the drug squad on tomorrow night’s raid at Tiffany’s. It would mean him coming in late. Was Bev cool with that? Thinking it through, she couldn’t see any reason to put the kibosh on it. Dazza would be well placed if anything useful emerged, anyone interesting turned up. Besides, his allotted tasks could always be shared out or swapped round. ‘Yeah. Why not?’
‘Great. I’ll tell him he has your blessing. Toodle-pip.’ Struggling to keep a straight face, Powell made it through the door this time.
God, he’d looked pleased with himself. Mind, it wasn’t often he had the last word.
‘It’s the way he tells ’em, boss.’ Mac winked as he handed Bev her jacket. ‘As you’re off quote, gallivanting, I take it you want me to have a crack at Khalid?’
She gave him a playful punch. ‘How’d you guess, mate?’
‘From what you said last night, I’d imagine not many blokes would be welcome with open arms where you’re going.’ She had to think for a minute, then remembered giving him the gory details over the phone about Val’s attack.
She cut him a glance as they walked down the corridor. Ironically, Mac was one of the few men who might not get the frozen shoulder from Val and her mate. He hid it sometimes, but beneath that loud shirt and hulking exterior beat a kind, caring, intuitive, non-judgmental heart. No doubt about it, Stacey had bagged herself a good ’un. Lucky mare.
Overkill Page 13
